In the Minds of Men
by Rose Basilisk007
Summary: Sherlock's in a coma; Harry's stuck in his mind. The minds of the two most powerful men of muggle and wizarding worlds are mysteriously connected. Turmoil and dark days approach, and the men needed most can't escape their minds. In the shadows, unknown to all, a third man sets the stage for the coming of a new age. Contains: slash, johnlock, epicness, dark themes, rated M
1. Prologue: Trouble usually Finds me

**Hello Lovelies; this is Rose Basilisk007, and... My dear friend; KaruKageXP. I'm going to tell you a story before you read the actual one. So, Karu and I go to the same Uni, we tend to allow our plot animals-because they aren't always bunnies- to frolic in the mental fields together whilst we have tea. One day one of my plot otters lost his blue scarf, he went in search for it but couldn't find it. Eventually, he came upon a plot hedgehog that belonged to Karu. The hedgehog went up to the otter and gave him his scarf; as he'd heard the otter had been looking for it. As it so happened, they found themselves inexplicably drawn to each other... And then things happened. Karu and I came upon the couple not long after their hodder was born-and it was EPIC! So we visited the little family often, and as the hodder grew, it told us an epic plot. This is that plot**

**So Karu and I are co-authoring this story. It will also be on her page, you should all go there, simply because it is polite... wait a wee bit, though, she needs to do some cleaning on it. You can all read now. Ta **

**Prologue- Trouble usually finds me **

_**A cave— turn of the twentieth century **_

_Merlin sat on the stone; his glamour had been dropped once he'd entered. The last Great Dragon sat in the depths of the cave below. The Cave reminded Merlin of the original cave he'd met the Dragon in. At least his old friend was no longer physically imprisoned; still, once the sanctuaries had been established the last true Dragon had gone underground again. He preferred it to the idiots who "ran" the reserves. Merlin didn't blame the ancient being. _

_ He had long ago dropped out of the magical community, solely watching from afar, he'd felt no reason to truly be a part of either community since… Well, since his other half had passed. _

_ "You've dropped the glamour, ancient warlock," greeted the Dragon. Merlin gave his lopsided grin to his old friend. The great wings beat a furious wind that brought the gigantic being to the upper level where Merlin sat. The Dragon, once settled, gave an amused yet curious look at the Warlock. _

_ "You've come for a reason," he said. Merlin knew it wasn't a question. _

_ "I've been watching the work that… Arthur and I did. I know you feel the magic, or rather the lack there of, as I have. Most of the other magical beings have—I'd ask the druids but they've all gone. Something went wrong, back then, in Camelot," Merlin said. _

_ "What do you plan to do about it, dear warlock. Camelot is centuries past, and even you and I cannot manipulate time to that degree," said the Dragon. _

_ "I have concluded that we didn't create Albion. You know, don't you, that he died too soon. We didn't actually complete our destiny—if we had he wouldn't be dead or I wouldn't be breathing. So Albion was not truly created," Merlin said. He was proud that he'd kept himself from choking; even after centuries he still felt his heart crack at the mention of Arthur or his death. His missed his other half more than any could understand, and the pain had only mounted as the eon had passed by. _

_ "I know, he is the 'Once and Future King' after all. However, you did not answer as to why you are here. Do you have a plan to rectify this…predicament. Merlin gave another cracked smile. He rarely smiled at all since Arthur's death, and even then they were broken and shoddy imitations. _

_ "I do have a plan. A way to fix things, to set them right. I require your assistance, however. This will take a lot of magic," said the immortal wizard. _

_ "May I ask what this magic will be used for?" _

_ "My 'death'." _

**Modern Day—St. Bart's hospital, London **

John Watson sat by a bed in the critical care unit of the hospital. The patient was stable, which was why he was allowed to sit in the room. Sherlock lay in the hospital bed, dressed in the white patient's clothing and tucked under the linen. His arms connected to multiple medical monitors and devices to assist in his healing.

John wasn't actually worried about his…Friend's physical injuries. Well, he was actually quite worried about them, but they weren't his priority. Sherlock was also injured in a mental sense; and _that s_cared John shitless. More than anything else in his life ever had; even when he'd nearly lost his life under that hot desert sun.

They'd been on the trial of a serial killer; one who tortured and murdered attractive gay men. Sherlock had been in the flat, physically, as he had retreated to his mind palace that day, and John had gotten called to the surgery. When John had returned it was to an unconscious Mrs Hudson and an empty flat. The sheet Sherlock had draped himself in strewn on the floor.

They'd found Sherlock near twelve hours later in the cellar of the mad man's house. In truth, John had found it first, mostly because he was the only one who understood Sherlock's vague clues, and had subdued the killer—Mycroft would most likely be getting involved to keep John out of the courts for it. Lestrade and his men had shown up when John called for emergency medical assistance.

Sherlock had been tortured with a lot of zeal; if the extent of his injuries was anything to go by, John had never seen anything like it. Sherlock had shown a slight response at John's voice but had lost consciousness after that. John had done his best to stem the flow of dark blood that had flooded out of the consulting detective.

Mike Stamford had told John three hours ago, when he'd been allowed into Sherlock's room, that there was no permanent damage; some scaring was very possible, but nothing debilitating. The pain, though, that Sherlock had experienced in those twelve hours of hell on earth was a different matter. The pain had been so great, they theorised, that Sherlock's mind couldn't handle the sensory intake and had induced a coma to stop the pain; that's where most of the serious damage laid. In the detective's most valued organ.

So here John sat, three hours later, at Sherlock's side; watching his dear friend lay still for the first time since John met him. Well, there had been Sherlock's "death" three and a half years ago; but that didn't count because Sherlock had had a hand in that. This was real; his friend was lying there, he may never wake, and John was helpless.

**Ministry of Magic, London-same day as Sherlock's torture **

It wasn't that Harry was purposefully terrible at occlumency; it was just that his mindscape was organised as a mind-castle. Harry, for his part, blamed it on his childhood obsession with King Arthur and Camelot. It would have been perfect for protecting his-self, if he hadn't ended up modelling it on Hogwarts. He hadn't meant to, it had just sort of happened.

So now here he was, in his mind castle trying to find the invader; one Dark Lord Voldemort. The ministry had transfigured itself into a major cluster fuck when the snake faced bastard arrived. Now Harry was, technically, possessed and Harry just knew Voldemort was doing something very naughty with his body—he was sure of it.

What made it worse was that there was something else in his mind; he'd been aware of it ever since he'd created his mind castle to escape to from the severe beatings Vernon had given him. Originally it had just hidden beneath the castle, but after second year the hidden room had turned into the Chamber of Secrets; and Harry flat out refused to go through something like that again. Yet once Voldemort invaded his mind, he'd felt the Chamber door open, so he technically had two enemies to deal with.

_I'm starting to think I should have just tried to get rid of it, when I realised I could get in, _Harry thought bitterly as he crept through the shadows of the corridor towards the Great Hall. He felt Voldemort's presence there and was approaching with great caution. Suddenly there was a large hiss from behind and Harry dived out into the light just in time to escape the strike of a mind basilisk. He ended up landing in front of the grand staircase.

"Harry Potter," came a hissy voice from the doorway to the Great Hall. There stood the Darkest Lord since, perhaps, Morgana herself. The snake like warlock eyed the basilisk with curiosity before realisation dawned upon his features.

"I see, I must have made an unintentional Horcrux that night. Interesting, _**Kill him,**_" Voldemort hissed. Harry didn't know what a Horcrux was, but he figured it had something to do with the night his parents died and why he seemed to be connected to the evil bastard.

Harry rolled as the snake struck and got to his feet. The younger warlock ran up the stairs. The snake striking out, taking chunks of ancient stone and marble with its actions. Harry didn't have his wand, he'd never needed it in his mind castle—so it was somewhere in the physical world. To be honest, Harry only needed the wand to help channel his power; otherwise his magic was just too much for him to control. It was too strong and to wild for him to use by himself—which was why he was in this predicament to begin with. He'd been too busy watching the amazing control the Light and Dark lords held over their magic.

_I don't really have a choice, though. Not if I want to survive, _Harry told himself as he ran through the halls of the castle. Harry didn't know what spell to use. The fangs of the serpent snagged upon his robe, because whilst in the castle he tended to wear a non-descript uniform. Harry felt himself being yanked back towards death, but he just barely escaped by sliding out of his robe. He ducked and rolled to a stop; allowing momentum to carry the gigantic serpent further down the corridor before it turned. Yet Harry was moving as soon as it passed him; getting to his feet and running in the direction he'd come.

Harry ran down the stairs and along the second floor corridor; maybe if he got to the headmaster's office, the central control to his mind, he'd be able to gain back control. He never found out if that theory was correct, however, as Voldemort stood in front of the gargoyle. Harry skidded to a stop, his heart thumping faster than a sentry jackrabbit.

Harry could feel the fiend fyre Voldemort had set below; leaving ruins in its wake as it spread through out his lower levels and the courtyards. Voldemort gave a soft, and vicious smile at the young warlock as they heard the basilisk Horcurx slither closer to them. Harry was now trapped, nowhere to go without death reaching him.

Harry's only thought was to purge his mind of the fyre, the Horcrux and the dark bastard before him.

_I just want them gone, I want them purged from my castle! _Harry screamed to himself. His magic ran rampant at the thought; killing curse green flames tinged with gold sprung forth from Harry's centre. He heard a loud hiss and a high-pitched wail of pain as the flames engulfed the dark pair. The incandescent flames didn't stop, however, running on the pure emotion of Harry they swept through the castle; wiping out the fyre below but destroying much itself. Harry slipped into darkness from the sheer force of his magic.

When the fifteen year old awoke, he noticed scorch marks everywhere, realising he'd released pure magic in an effort to be rid of his invaders. He turned his head to the left, to see the entryway to the headmaster's office.

_That… is just typical. Just bloody typical, _he thought when he looked.

His purging flames had destroyed the staircase to office. He was now stuck in his mind castle, with no way out.

**The Ministry of Magic entryway, London- after the purging **

Everyone was gathered in the entryway; the battle in the execution chamber having ended and ministry officials having arrived just moments before. Harry had been twisting and writhing on the floor in agony for near three hours; being possessed by Voldemort was legendary for the brutal pain the evil man put his victims through. None could get near him to help as it was dangerous to the boy. Suddenly Voldemort ripped himself from the child; an agonising screaming ripping from both their throats.

The journalists present snapped pictures of the returned Dark Lord as everyone else gasped. All too frozen with terror to do anything. Before even Albus could react a bright, gold tinged incandescent green light of pure magic rippled from Harry Potter's arching body. Voldemort let out another scream as the magic surrounded him and ripped his body apart.

When the magic dissipated there was no Dark Lord anywhere, only shredded, smouldering robes where he had once stood. Harry Potter, the boy-who'd-slayed-the-Dark-Lord was still and prone on the floor. No tension, no movement; they would have all thought him dead except for the shallow rising and falling of his chest.

**A/N: the chapters will be published in groups of three so updates will be longer than my norm. Ta**


	2. Chapter 1: To the Great Mind

**Chapter 1: To a great mind, nothing is little**

**In Sherlock's Mind Palace**

Sherlock was thrust unceremoniously into the foyer of his mind palace, the stone floors cold and hard against his skin, as he lay sprawled upon the floor. Through the large glass windows moonlight shone, giving the open room soft shadows. Candles lit up the otherwise dark palace, illuminating other parts of the majestic building.

_Strange. I've never experienced nighttime within my mind palace before, _Sherlock thought slowly getting to his feet.

_Hm, I'll look into it later, _Sherlock thought, straightening his blazer. The differences to his mind palace were subtle, but his trained eyes noticed every anomaly in his mind palace. He moved to the entrance cupboard, where he stored all data regarding immediate events; waiting for him to shift through and categorize it all at his earliest convenience. As soon as he opened the door, flashes of pain and maniacal laughter flooded him.

_Ah, the insecure businessman; secretly gay, raised by conservative parents, judging by the self-loathing over his sexual orientation. Strong, big boned, rather artistic in his torture methods. He'd been mutilating gay men for the last three months. It was rather simple. He was slightly clever in his abductions; still nothing compared to the cabby. The cabby had talked me into going with him, the manic torturer had to drug me first, _Sherlock shifted through the events. The torture he'd suffered had been brutal, but the pain was muffled; indicating his mind had removed itself from the circumstances. Sherlock huffed in annoyance and continued shifting through the data.

_Ah, here's where my torture session is. Then John rescued me; I knew he would figure out where I was, _No you didn't, popped into his head at his unspoken comment. He shook his head in denial that it had been hope rather than certainty he'd felt in those… Twelve hours of agony.

_Then I ended up here... Evaluation of transport: severe damage, possibly permanent. Requires concentration, time and no outside stimuli. I'm in a self-induced coma to maximize effective recovery. Dull. It will be dreadfully boring in the mean time. The coma does explain the change in time, at least. It seems when my transport shuts down it becomes night. It's logical at least. _

Sherlock closed the cupboard door and began ascending the winding stairs. He walked purposefully to the grand library. The detective went straight to his section on cases, and placed the new data into its corresponding book. The words _case closed_ and the date elegantly scrawled themselves under the original title. The experience of the torture he placed in a separate book entitled _Personal experiences: unpleasant_ that was further towards the back of the library, in his private section where he didn't often trespass.

Once finished, Sherlock made his way to the main ballroom a level below the library. The room was baroque in style, with massive bay windows that lead to a marble balcony; offering a breath-taking view of a crystal blue lake. The ballroom was where all his music was stored. Sherlock walked to the center of the room.

He brought his hands up in front of him, and the notes appeared before the detective. He planned to continue his composition entitled _John_. Sherlock had been composing it ever since the man limped into his life, but was having trouble finding a proper theme to accurately represent the complex human. There was something that made the doctor different, something that made him special. A mysterious quality that made him the exception to Sherlock's usual treatment of the rest of his species.

He dismissed the percussion part with a wave of his hand. _Too obvious,_ He huffed. Instead he put the metric accents in the string section with the cellos and violas playing on the beats while the violin and clarinet exchanged the theme. _Clarinet? No, trumpet, perhaps. No, French horn._ There was a buzzing in his mind that prevented him from focusing on the composition. He placed the composition aside and brought forth an older piece instead. He picked up his violin from its stand beside him and began playing the theme that represented the chase and the adrenalin-filled sensation that began his career as a consulting detective.

The music was strange. It felt muffled directly around him, but it echoed as if the surrounding areas outside could hear the notes better. He went to the window and for the first time noticed that the forest was darker, more wild, and the lake more muddied than before. Sherlock dismissed his violin and left the ballroom with a flourish.

Sherlock made his way past the unused private chambers on the uppermost floor that contained all of his personality traits. He never entered there, nor slept on the bed that existed in there. He instead entered his lab that occupied the north tower, he grabbed a flask before swiftly descending the stairs. He briskly walked towards the body of water. Sherlock opened the tube and filled it with the murky water, swirling it about to try and determine what had caused his subconscious to become so dark and obscured. He noted that the murky water almost seemed foreign, as if it was not truly his subconscious obscuring the clarity. Busy analyzing the tube, Sherlock hadn't noticed the elegant boat that crept through the mist. His eyes flicked upwards and caught sight of it.

_A boat? I didn't make this, why has is appeared, where'd it come from? Am I to just climb in and let it sweep me to the great unknown?_

He touched the boat with caution, and found it secure. He gingerly climbed in and found himself being taken from the shore. The boat was silent and powered by nothing he could detect. The mist Sherlock boated through was opaque and seemed to be endless; as did the lake he travelled across.

Sherlock's boat persisted onwards in total silence. After a few moments, a grand building arose out of the fog. A large castle reminiscent to one in a fairytale, although it looked as if abandoned. A tower was crumbling down; stain glass windows were shattered, giving a haunted look to the fortress. There were even scorch marks from some strange internal blast visible from the distance. Even ruined, however, it was breath taking. Sherlock cautiously stood in the boat and as he got a better view, he could see the river bank where a boy, who appeared early adolescence, was lying in the grass.

"What did you do to my lake?" he called out to the boy. The child scrambled to his feet as Sherlock reached the shore.

_He's malnourished, cramped living quarters, causing height deficiency—age approximately fifteen or sixteen years. Heavy set sibling? No, he's a cousin, grossly obese, not a close relationship; although they've lived together more than a decade. He was orphaned at young age, sent to live with immediate relatives—no parents would feed one child and starve the other, not to mention those rags. Writes with a quill—based on placement and size of callouses on thumb, index and right ring finger—good penmanship due to lack of ink smudges on right hand. Unknown callouses on thumb and index finger; not consistent with any tools I know of. I need more data. Recent scar on right hand, old scar on forehead—both purposefully done? The bags under his eyes indicate insomnia, PTSD? Could be from trauma. Not recent, though, but life altering. Most likely from his parent's death. Car crash? Unlikely as the shape is very distinct, almost intentional, and could not have been caused by any car part in a normal car crash._

It was as he finished his deductions of the boy before him that he noticed the glowing ball floating near the child who he now realized looked eerily similar to him._ What is that? Some extra essence or soul? I need more data_. As soon as he finished his initial observations, Sherlock stepped off the boat and onto the shore. The boy scoffed at him.

"Your lake?—"

Sherlock stopped listening as he realized that was probably not the best way to approach a wary teenager he'd just met in his subconscious.


	3. Chapter 2: That which makes it Whole

**Chapter II-That Which Makes it Whole**

**St. Mungo's hospital-three days after the ministry incident **

`The mind healers of the hospital had been having a hell of a time trying to assess the damage to the boy that the whole wizarding world owed a large life debt to. Destroying the Dark Lord with a wave of pure light summoned by magic; the last person known to do anything like that had been Merlin himself when he'd summoned lightening itself from the skies.

They had finally discovered that is wasn't just Harry Potter's mindscape that had been damaged during the possession. It seemed that the purpose in the possession had been to shatter the child's mind itself. As far as they could tell, the goal had been accomplished very well. The lead healer of the floor walked into his office and sat before his former year-mate; Poppy. She had volunteered to talk to the healers as Dumbledore's representative; with Minerva as a companion.

"Poppy, Deputy-Headmistress, I-I'm not sure how I can best explain what we've diagnosed. It's rather complicated," Healer Martin said. He had no doubt Poppy would, she had to know a bit more than just the basics of mind healing in order have her occupation. However, to try and explain this to a transfiguration professor who didn't even know a lot about _mind magic_ was what worried him. The usual stern matron gave an encouraging smile.

"Why not start with the basic concepts and then discuss how it relates to mind magic and Harry," she said before turning to Minerva. "I know you probably don't appreciate this, but if you want to understand what has happened to the dear lad you need to know these basics."

"I understand, please, continue healer Martin. I know how ignorant I am in this subject, if you must explain basic terms, do so," said the head of Gryffindor. She hated not knowing anything about this topic. She'd be reading up on it after this, without a doubt.

"Alright. First there is the mind, you know about that, however some people create what we in healing term mindscapes. These are places that organise the information in the mind; it's like creating a library of sorts inside your mind, a place where you have everything you'd ever read or been taught, even sensory information can be stored there, so you never forget anything. Occlumency uses mindscapes for defence, a place you know like the back of your hand but any other would be lost in—not to mention the traps, false doors and other defensive accessories you can add to your mindscape. Legimency tries to extract information from the mind; and the best mages at it are the ones that can navigate foreign mindscapes. The Dark Lord was known to just destroy a mindscape as an addition to whatever he was in your head for, understand so far?"

"Are you saying Harry Potter had a mindscape and the dark lord destroyed it?" Minerva asked as she nodded her understanding. Healer Martin shook his head.

"Young Harry does have a mindscape, they're created for all sorts of reasons, I could hazard a guess—based on his school healing file—as to what his was used for, and his was most likely constructed during childhood and it appears to be quite elaborate," Martin said. Poppy frowned.

"What do you mean by elaborate, mindscapes are just a room in one's mind, aren't they?" asked the matron. Minerva looked at her friend. So did Martin.

"Usually they are, Poppy. However, some people—for whatever reason—don't just construct a single room. They construct large pieces of architecture; organising their _entire _mind to fit within their mindscape. You normally see it in mages of immense power, it takes not just time and energy, but a lot of power and motivation to preform such a feat of making a mindscape of a single room. Elaborate mindscapes take many times more than such. Harry's, it appears, encompassed his entire mind. Nothing was left out. That's where this becomes tricky," Martin explained.

_His entire mind was a mindscape? Does he really have such power? _Poppy asked herself.

"What do you mean it becomes tricky? What did Voldemort do?" Minerva asked. She rarely used the name, finding it left a filthy aftertaste on her tongue. It showed how worried she was for the young lion that she uttered it.

"When the Dark lord started to damage Harry's mindscape, he wasn't just damaging the mindscape, he was damaging different parts of Harry's mind. A dark warlock known for his prowess in the mind arts; he had to have known what he was doing when he started destroying things inside of Harry's mindscape."

"So he has extensive damage?" Poppy asked.

"Yes," was all the healer said. Minerva furrowed her brow.

"Is it permanent? You can heal it, can't you?" asked the professor. Harry would pull through, the little lion always had before.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. I told you before this is complicated. We've no idea what Harry Potter's mindscape is like, we don't know exactly _what _damage occurred nor its severity, and what's more important is that we've no way of healing the young man."

"Don't tell me that his…"

"Yes, Poppy, his central nervous portion was at the very least cut off from inside the mindscape. Harry Potter is stuck inside his mindscape and we've no way of getting to him. At this point, the only one who can heal the boy is himself—and he has no training. At most he may, _may_ be able to reconnect himself to the outside world. However, this is a very unlikely possibility."

"So what? He'll die?" Minerva asked as her heart slowly froze as realisation led to overwhelming fear.

"His magic will sustain him for a while, we've no idea how long. We're currently trying to ascertain how large his magical core is; but the tests all require response from the patient and Harry Potter is not able to respond. At best we can guess it's abnormally large and he may have years, or months. We—we just don't know. I'm sorry," Martin said. He'd been through this often with cases where they had little to no hope, where he had to tell the loved ones they needed to brace for the worst. That it could last a lifetime, or none at all.

The two witches across from him sat still, but their responses were very different. Poppy had done her practical training in the hospital. She'd done this routine far more than she'd ever had wanted to. She used her own experience from similar talks to help her keep her face calm and bland. Minerva, much to Poppy's surprise, started to silently cry. The strong Scotswoman she'd known for decades broke down. There was only one thing the two women would talk of for the rest of the day: _what would they say? _

**Mind Castle-same day **

Harry walked down to the black lake's shore. Over the past day or so he'd surveyed his entire mind castle and the grounds around it. Voldemort and his blasted basilisk had caused a lot of damage; and Harry didn't need Hermione to tell him exactly how bad the boded for him. Harry breathed out a sigh, his "air" visible in the chill. His mind had always been the perfect temperature before, but now it was cold from his inability to feel warmth.

The sky was black as the darkest night, no stars and no moon. Harry's light came from the orb he'd conjured that floated behind him. He had candles in the castle, but he really didn't want to use them. So he'd conjured the orb. Harry knew that the destruction was very bad, the fyre had destroyed a lot of very _very _ important places in the castle, and his flames had only increased the damage. Harry knew that if he didn't figure out how to fix this whole mess he'd die. It would take him a very long time, but time flowed differently and what was a week for him could very well be a month for everyone on the other side.

Harry didn't know what to do or where to begin. So he headed towards the lake. On the other side he'd always found comfort in the dark waters and the solitude of the forest. As Harry approached the lake he noticed the water was lighter and clearer than it usually was. Not by much, but enough to be rather odd in his opinion.

_What does it matter? I've got bigger problems to solve than why the lake has changed its hue, _Harry told himself. He was about to dismiss the oddity when he experienced another. Somewhere on the other side of the lake a violin was being played. The melody was lovely but unfamiliar to the young warlock. He waded in, his bare feet—he honestly hated shoes and never wore them whilst in his castle—were rough as a hobbit's and didn't feel the sharp rocks in the lakebed. He didn't even notice his wool trousers becoming wet around the calves. He stood knee deep in the water when the violin stopped.

Harry was now very curious, he'd never heard the violin before and he had no idea why he had. It could be another person, but this was Harry's mind and no one else was here—he'd have felt it if they had been. Harry looked out into the thick darkness of the uncharted portion of his mind. After a few moments Harry returned to the shore and picked up a thin, pointed stick laying on the ground. He began to draw lines and circles in the sand.

Harry allowed himself to wander as he drew. _Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, to stay here for the rest of my days… I wouldn't have to conform to the person they want me to be, I wouldn't have to be the boy-who-lived anymore. I'm not able to get rid of Voldemort, I had to use accidental magic and luck to save myself, so how could I possibly save anyone else?… I'd be useless if I went back, more useless than I was at the ministry, _Harry silently rambled.

He clearly remembered the events of the ministry, the moments of danger he'd put his friends in by being reckless, Sirius's death by his stupidity, the uselessness he'd had felt fighting Voldemort when he compared the duel with that of Dumbledore—who couldn't even look at him anymore he was so useless. So pathetic. Everything had changed with Cedric's death; he'd shown the world how useless he was with the death of one of his few true friends… HE couldn't save anyone. Why they all thought he was special was unknown to him. _Maybe it was because of my scar, the connection with Voldemort? That's gone now, destroyed by my purging flames, _Harry thought as he doodled.

"It's better that I can't get back, that I'll die here," he whispered to himself dropping the stick into the water. The ebb and flow of the lake water rubbing away the great palace he'd doodled. Harry sat on the ground a little ways from the shoreline, and allowed himself to recline.

_I refuse to try. If others would think it as a surrender , then they can. I don't give one damn, _he thought. He'd lie here on the shore side until his body drew its last breathe on the other side. He closed his eyes in release. He'd miss Ron and Hermione, though. Out of everyone, he felt the worst for not trying for them…but, he was tired. He was tired of the fickle people who'd pinned their responsibility on a boy and then shamed him when he failed to live up to their demands, he was tired of being this Harry and that Harry and boy, freak, warlock, boy-who-lived, the golden boy of Gryffindor, Dumbledore's boy, Potter brat, and anyone that wasn't just Harry.

Who was Harry, though? He himself didn't know. He hadn't even known his own name until his first day of school; until that point he'd been either "you" or "the boy". He'd grown up with no name, no identity, and no purpose but to serve. Hogwarts wasn't really any different: it just had different rules, duties and expectations of who he was than the Dursleys. He'd never had an opportunity to find out who he was, only what he wasn't and what everyone wanted him to be. What he was, his entire purpose revolved around being a tool, a means to an end for everyone else.

Not to say Harry didn't have a personality, just that everything that made him up, his interests and morals and desires revolved around serving a greater purpose; of being a piece to a grander puzzle. The only thing that had made him a puzzle piece in the war against Voldemort was a night where he'd used his magic to fulfil his mother's last wish—for him to live—and the strange connection that had resulted from it. That was gone, destroyed beyond retrieval, only ash remained of the basilisk.

_I'm not sorry, Ron, Hermione. I tried my best, I did what I could; but I just can't cut it. I can't save anyone, I can't even save myself. I never could, because…_

"…I'm not a whole person," Harry whispered into the chilling air by the lake. He didn't feel complete, some part of him was missing; and until he was completed he was useless. _But I'm stuck here now, and I've been looking for that missing piece since I noticed I wasn't whole. I couldn't find it, and I can't work without it, so here I am. Stuck until I die… That's alright. It's not like any of them truly understood how I felt, not even Ron and Hermione, _Harry thought with a small amount of grief. He'd told Cedric once, towards the end of the Tournament, how even when he was with his friends he felt lonely. The way he had always felt as a small child. Cedric had told him he didn't doubt it.

"_I can't imagine how lonely it is to be the most powerful person around," _Cedric had told him. Harry still only partly understood what Cedric had meant, he had more magic than even Dumbledore, he could _feel _it, but he had no way of controlling it. Still, it was raw power at best, and Harry thought that those who could control their raw magic were far more powerful. He felt tears prickle in his eyes as he remembered his dear friend—the only one to ever get close enough to understanding how Harry felt.

"What did you do to my lake?" came a deep, smooth voice. It sounded like the lake personified, but Harry knew it wasn't. Harry scrambled to his feet. His orb flaring at the increase of wariness its conjuror exueded.

Before Harry, was a boat that was reminiscent of the enchanted boats used for first years. This one was more elegant, however, and in it stood a man who looked very much the way Harry suspected he would when he was full grown. Certainly he'd never reach the height of this lithe man, and his eyes glowed green rather than being a clear turquoise, but they had the same messy dark curls and the same cream complextion. The resemblance was striking to both of them, but they were still weary of the other.

"Your lake? Don't be ridiculous, the lake is my subconscious. An uncharted area of my mind," Harry said. He was always straightforward in his explanations to others. The man regarded him.

"As it is mine, so you're an invader," said the man. Harry scoffed, the man narrowed his eyes. Harry gave a crooked grin and spread his arms to indicate the area around him.

"_Does _it look like I'm invading? I was just invaded myself, and you're the one whose travelled here in a boat. I didn't invade you, it's the other way around," Harry said. The man stepped out of the boat with grace and landed on the shore. _He's a muggle, so how can he—_

"I came to investigate the strange light on this side of _my _lake, which has been unnaturally tampered with. Although, it appears that your mind… Castle has been pillaged by someone," said the man as he stepped closer to the glowing orb.

"Most definitely a muggle," Harry murmured. Pillaged was rather accurate a term for the damage. However, a mage would have noted that most of the damage contained Harry's magical aura; they'd have used magical terminology, asked who he'd fought. The man's attention snapped back to him.

"What did you just call me?" the man asked in pure curiosity. He'd never heard that term before and it hadn't sounded derogatory, more like the boy had been identifying a breed of dog. Harry tensed, he hadn't meant to say that out loud. _Oh, who gives a damn. I'm going to die here, and if he crossed our subconciouses than he's obviously not a normal muggle, _Harry thought and threw caution to the wind.

"I said muggle. It means non-magical person; and I suggest you don't get too close to the light. It's pure magic and will cause a lot of pain if you make it uncomfortable," Harry said dismissively. He should head back to the castle and see what he could do to clean the place up. He may be ready to die in his head; but he'd be damned if he gave Aunt Petunia the satisfaction of dying in a _filthy _mind; ruins be damned. He turned and started walking up the hill, the orb following him.

"Magic? It _does _exsist? Wait! Is that how we're connected? Hey, I need more data if I'm supposed to properly deduce!" exclaimed the man who was now bounding up the hill after him. Harry turned.

"I've no idea why we're connected. It's not normal, even for mind magic… I suppose we could talk, I'll need your name. I'm Harry Potter," he said and held out a hand. He'd learned long ago to just adapt to strange situations. The man took his hand and shook it.

"Sherlock Holmes. Now, what's mind magic?"


	4. Chapter 3: At your side

**Hello lovlies, sorry that Karu and I haven't been updating as quickly as we should've been. I was in a writing comp. and we had finals, so the story took a trip to the back burner. Here's the next three chapyies, though. So here… Ta**

**Chapter 3: I'll be at your side, like I always am**

**St. Bart's Hospital ICU**

Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers sat in the hospital, it wasn't in his office or by a patient or their family, but it was by his best mate's side. Sherlock was strapped with wires and IVs, and did absolutely nothing. It was haunting to see the detective, a man who abhors stillness as much as others did rodents, merely laying in a hospital bed, barely breathing, completely separated from the rest of the world.

John sat straight tense in the uncomfortable chair, his feet planted flat on the linoleum tiles, his hands clenched so tightly on his knees the knuckles were white. His dark blue eyes never left Sherlock's pale, unanimated face. The scene before him was so surreal he couldn't bring himself to disturb it by touching the soft skin or the rough cotton blankets. Were he to touch Sherlock, to try and connect with his comatose friend, it would cement the reality of the situation, and right now, John did not need any more certainty to it's reality. He wouldn't be able to handle it.

John heard the words before he recognised them as his own.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's all my fault; I should have realized something was wrong earlier when you—"the final part of the statement died on his tongue, drowned by dry sobs that threated to crawl out of his throat.

"I can't imagine in those 12 hours for you. What it was like, your thoughts… I can't; but, if you get PTSD or can't work anymore, or…something, I won't be able to live with myself for not be fast enough, smart enough. I just can't."

John's posture crumbled the way ruins do; his shoulders slumped and his head fell forward as hot, silent tears slid down his cheeks. He was supposed to _protect _Sherlock, and he'd failed. He reached out with shaking fingers and touched the edge of Sherlock's upturned palm with the callous tips. With the hesitancy of remorse his life-saving, and taking, fingers expanded their reach across Sherlock's hand and let the sobs moved passed the doctor's throat and into the air. That was all right. They were safe in this room. No prying eyes and wagging tongues could reach them here, could judge.

After a while, the tears ceased their flow and the sobs echoed away, but his remained remained on Sherlock's. His eyes once again fixed on Sherlock, watching his breath come and go at a snail's pace. He found himself breathing with Sherlock. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. His eyes felt heavy with the salt residue, his head felt filled with lead. His grief, anger and despairing hope weighed on him as much as the wounded men he'd carried to safety under that hot desert sun. John shook his blond head and sat up straight once more. _Must keep watch. Mustn't sleep._

"John." John jumped and turned to see Mycroft standing by the door, as usual, in his impeccable brown suit with his umbrella on his arm. John was shocked to see sadness, concern and understanding in the Iceman's stoic face.

"How long have you been here?" John asked as he tried to wipe the evidence of his private watch from his red eyes. It was a futile effort he knew, but the raw feeling from the friction may help him wake up. Mycroft gave a small, cordial smile. It was the smile he gave when he indulged his brother.

"Long enough. I waited outside for you to finish… Have you been here for the last few days, John?" he asked in an unusually gentle tone. It was a shocking revelation that Mycroft could be tender towards anyone, and here he was being so with John.

It was then that John remembered Mycroft was Sherlock's brother and, despite the childish feud, the repressed emotions, and the cruel words; Mycroft did love his baby brother. He cared for his brother, and he now had absolute proof John did too, so he was being gentle. Caring was a disadvantage, yes. Yet, only so if someone caught you doing it.

"Go home, John. You need rest, and you've done more than enough already. I will watch over him." Mycroft said and made his way towards John at a sedate pace. He placed a warm, soft hand on John's shoulder; willing him to go home and sleep. John looked back at Sherlock and rubbed his roughened fingers on Sherlock's palm once more, a promise of returning to continue his vigil.

John walked down the sterile hallways of the hospital with a distinct lack of emotion on his face. He'd given a statement to Donovan, and Lestrade had probably talked with Mycroft, or would soon. Still, the pitying looks of the constables, the doctors, everyone—it was too much. He wanted to get away, to get home; but it wasn't home without Sherlock, he'd discovered that in the two year "death" of his friend.

He didn't know how he'd managed it, but he found himself in front of 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was helping him up the stairs, a purple-sleeved arm wrapped around him in comfort. She was telling him how Sherlock was going to be fine, all the antics he got up to, it was the first real comfort John had had in seventy-two hours. He tried to smile, and he nearly managed it, Mrs Hudson patted his back as she helped him into the flat and said good-bye.

He climbed the stairs and stumbled into his bed without changing. It wasn't long before the exhaustion overtook the doctor…

_John opened his eyes to find himself lying on his front in moss and dead leaves. He heaved himself off the ground and looked around. He was standing in a dark forest clearing; there was no light from the sky because of the foliage. John rooted about in his pockets for his phone or a penlight, something to illuminate his way. He found nothing. Sighing, John squinted his eyes and began walking. It did not take long before he was lost. He wandered aimlessly through the dark forest using the trees around him as a sort of guide but after a while, he looked around and found himself once again in the same clearing as before. Through out his aimless walk, he'd held the distinct impression that he knew this forest. He'd been here before, but also…_

_John moved towards the nearest tree. When he touched it preparing to sit down, he felt a shock go up and down his spine. He withdrew his hand._

"_What in the bloody—" He touched the tree again and felt warmth spread from his fingertips this time. "Sherlock…"_

"_How can it be—" before he could finish, there was a familiar growling from behind him. John turned slowly and found himself faced with something that could only come from Sherlock's nightmares: the Hound. The big beast truly was terrifying; its yellow eyes almost glowed in a sickening hue, foam dripped from its mouth and its paws had razors for claws. This is what Sherlock had seen on the moors, and it was terrifying. _

_It began moving towards him in a predatory fashion and slowly circled its way closer to John. John backed into the tree and felt its fear along with his own. Some rotten fruit fell from the branch nearest the Hound and hit it on the snout. The Hound stopped in confusion and looked around. He knew this was his only chance, so John ran as fast as he could in one direction._

_He heard the pounding paws of the Hound following him, but he dare not turn around to see it chasing him. He just kept running, putting one foot in front of the other and praying that he wouldn't trip. Where the hell was he? Why did the forest feel like Sherlock and at the same time feel familiar too? Why was the Hound there? Suddenly, the hound leapt forward as John tripped and the only sound that ripped from his throat was; "SHERLOCK!"_

John sat upright in his bed and gasped for air. His clothes stank of no shower, no shave and a terrible dream. He looked around and found he was in his bed in Baker Street.

"It was just a dream. There wasn't a Hound, John." John said and tried the calming techniques he learned from his therapist. Fat lot of good they did. He swung his legs across the bed and stood up. _Perhaps a good cuppa will do the trick._

**Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix**

"Why is it taking so long? They should have the results by now." Molly Weasley said as she paced at the head of the table. It had been near a week since the Ministry incident, and St. Mungo's was still running tests on Harry.

"Molly. I'm sure Harry will be—"

"Tonks, don't you dare say fine or I swear I will curse that tongue right out of your mouth!"

"Molly!" Arthur said to her.

The rest of the table merely observed the argument in silence. No one had anything to say. Their one bargaining chip, their ray of hope has diminished extensively. Without the boy-who-lived, how on earth would they win against Lord Voldemort? Sure, he had been destroyed and everyone was celebrating, but everyone in the Order knew that it wasn't over; at least that's what Dumbledore said. If he came back before, he would try again. When that happens, they'd need Harry to stop it.

"Sorry, I'm just nervous." Molly said quietly. Suddenly there was a knock at the Grimmauld Place door. Molly went and after a minute, returned followed by none other than Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall.

"Boys, Ginny, Hermione, upstairs now." Mrs Weasley said.

"We need to know what happened to Harry, too." Ron said and the others nodded emphatically. Mrs Weasley looked to her husband who, after a very obvious inner war, nodded.

"What are the results, if you please, then." Remus said the table, Tonks nodded.

"The Dark lord, according to what the healers could theorise, severely damaged Harry's mindscape," said McGonagall as she sank onto a bench. She and Poppy had debated what to say to Dumbledore, eventually opting for a blunt, direct report. He'd then had a talk with Snape who was sent to the healers to assist.

"A mindscape is a part of the mind organised for any number of purposes; it takes a lot of power to create even a small space, and Potter structured his entire mind into one. Although I admit it's impressive, it has led to some unsavoury consequences," Snape interjected.

"What do you mean, Snape?" asked Molly.

"The Dark lord appears to have destroyed much of Harry's mindscape, meaning that he's also damaged much of Harry himself. Several of Harry's body functions are shutting down or running solely on magic," the deputy headmistress said. There were small gasps.

"You keep saying it appears that way? Why professor?" Hermione asked. Snape looked at her. His expression soft but grave.

"The Dark lord destroyed Potter's connection to the outside world, he doesn't respond to anything that happens outside of head. Since nearly all healing of the mind requires such a connection, we can't heal Harry. He's dying and there's nothing we can do. Soon his magic will run out, and he will die. His magical core wasn't even measured, we've no idea how large it is and so we don't even know when he's likely to die," the potions master said. Only Hermione and Remus noticed Snape use Harry's given name.

"He could die tomorrow, a week from now, a month, _years _for Merlin's sake!" Minerva said and put her head in her hands. She couldn't believe her lion was beyond help or hope. There was silence.

Molly shuddered and began to sob openly. Tears were streaming down Hermione and Ginny's faces silently and the rest of the table sat stony-eyed at the news. Within an unknown time, Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding world, would be no more and then; they would be at the mercy of Lord Voldemort—whenever he reappeared.


	5. Chapter 4: Not cowed by Knowledge

**Chapter IV: The wise man is not cowed by knowledge**

**Grimmauld Place, Buck Beak's room**

"Harry's dying… I never thought I'd say that," Ron said as he sat by the door. He'd been designated as outlook since it was the only way to make sure he stayed as quiet as the rest of them. The twins sat in the middle of the room cross-legged. They looked to be fiddling with their inventions but weren't really; it was a way of keeping themselves busy. They hadn't spoken since the meeting.

"None of us have ever thought about it, Ron. Although, it shouldn't come as a surprise; not with everything…" Hermione couldn't finish the sentence. Buck Beak nudged her in comfort, She absently petted his neck feathers. She too sat cross-legged, but she was leaned against the wall near the fugitive hippogriff. All she could think of was that during the last winter holiday this was the room Harry had spent most of his time in; alone with just his thoughts and loyal Buck Beak. It was the only place he'd gotten any peace this last year; and that brought tears to her eyes. The same way all the memories of previous years brought forth tears.

_To think this is how it'll end. After everything, it's just not fair, _she thought trying hard to keep a stiff lip.

"He's never been in love," Fred murmured into the silent room. An awkward tension settled into the room.

"How do you know that?" Ron asked. He knew his best friend was gay and that was why the whole Cho fiasco had happened, but he'd figured something with Cedric…

"He turned Cedric down last year. Said that he only felt friendship. Same with us this year," George said. "He said he just felt friendship towards everyone. He's going to die without ever having fallen in love."

A shocked silence filled the room. Ron couldn't believe that neither Harry nor the twins had informed him of the potential triad. Hermione couldn't believe that Harry had only viewed Cedric as a friend; the Hufflepuff had been the one to want something more… That was not how everyone else saw it. Of course, Harry felt almost nothing for how people viewed him, he'd always had far more important things to worry about.

"He won't die," whispered Ginny from the doorway. The four looked up to see her. It seemed they weren't the only ones who eavesdropped.

"He won't die, he'll think of something… Dinner's ready," she said before running off. The four got up, numb and in shock at Ginny's conviction. They went downstairs to supper, even though none of them felt like eating.

**Mind castle, library**

Sherlock was staring at the quill with his head cocked. The quill had looked had taken down his and Harry's conversation verbatim. On it's own. So here Sherlock was, spending an exorbitant amount of time trying to figure the bloody thing out.

"PeterPiperpickedapatchofpickledpepperhowmuchcouldawoodchuckchuckifawoochuckcouldchuckwooditwouldchuckasmuchasawoodchuckcouldcuckifawoodchuckcouldchuckwood," Sherlock said without effort or mishap. The tongue twisters rolled past his lips without trouble but seemed blended together he said them so fast. The quill, he noted took down every word, just as he'd said it.

_So it copies verbatim, I wonder if it takes direct orders? _Sherlock thought to himself as he looked over the parchment scroll. He looked at the quill.

'I want you to rewrite what I just said with punctuation," he told the quill. It wrote his words down on the parchment, but otherwise did nothing. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Rewrite the last sentence without spacing between words," he reworded. Again the quill took his words down but did not follow the order. It seemed that it could only take dictation. _Still, could be useful for note taking, _Sherlock thought. He plucked the quill out of the air and snatched the parchment scroll before it could hit the ground. He wandered off into the library.

_Where to start, where to start, _he mused to himself. The library was grand, nearly as grand as his own, but this library was filled not just with muggle knowledge, but with magical facts as well. Sherlock chose the upper floor, climbing the winding staircase. The sign near the spiral stairs had indicated the entire upper-floor was devoted to magic; which seemed very relevant to Sherlock's current mood, so it was up he went.

The upper floor, just as the lower floor had been, was organised into different aisles of scrolls and books split into different categories. There were even an aisle labelled; school events. Sherlock placed his enchanted quill and the accompanying parchment on a table near the stairs. He wandered off in search of something he thought might be useful to know.

He'd wandered through the aisles labelled _Transfiguration _and _Potions._ He'd looked through some of the books and scrolls on potions, but hadn't understood much of the context. Not even the scrolls and books labelled, _first year content. _He figured that he needed to study the texts on magic theory, if he was remembering correctly—which of course he did—so it was that specific aisle he was looking for.

It was in his pursuit of the elusive aisle that he found the gated section of the upper floor. He'd noticed the gated section on the lower floor and had figured it was where traumatic events were kept. Here, however, the foreboding gate intrigued him. He reached out to touch the lock and was shocked, painfully.

_I suppose I'll have to think about a way around that bit, _Sherlock thought as his interest spiked even higher. The gated section below hadn't shocked him when he'd touched it. So that led to the question of why had this one done so? What was the young man hiding in this gated section? Sherlock had no choice but to allow the questions to fester as he moved on, in search of his original target. He'd discover the hidden secrets later.

Sherlock finally found the section on magic theory and gathered the documents labelled as first year content. Taking the scrolls and tomes off the shelves, he returned to his table and opened several at once. He resigned himself to having to read the relevant sections out loud to the quill, but that was fine.

Far above the consulting detective on the seventh floor, Harry walked down a corridor leading to dancing trolls. Harry had stilled when he'd been given the alert that the man had tried to get into his restricted section. The detective hadn't tried a second time, but Harry figured the man would try again.

_He's just going to wait until he had a plan to get around the lock, _Harry mused, half amused the man would try. Snape had tried too, he hadn't gotten through and was a master in the mind arts. It the Dungeon Bat couldn't get through the defence then the man called Sherlock Holmes would have a hell of a time trying; although Harry would rather not have to deal with the man's incessant curiosity; Harry vaguely wondered as he walked towards the room of requirement if this was how everyone else felt when Harry got curious about something.

_Now isn't really the time to be thinking of this, _Harry chided and cleared his head of all but one thought. He walked passed the dancing trolls thrice before a single wooden door appeared. It was of plain, old wood with iron for hinges and to keep the planks together. For an odd reason Harry felt an odd nostalgia whenever he saw the mideval door. He couldn't ever help but think that on the other side was a laboratory to some healer or other medical type of man.

Harry pulled open the simple door and walked into the room. There were shelves filled with ointments, poultices, herbs and poisons. The tables had books and scrolls spread everywhere, there were diagrams on the walls, a small laboratory and a simple library on the makeshift second floor that one had to climb a ladder to get to. Harry had never been sure why this was what the room created for him; but he always felt safe and at home here. Harry walked towards the door at the end of the room, and entered.

Inside there was a glowing pulsing light of gold. Harry couldn't find the source, he'd stopped trying long ago; and it hadn't been until third year magic theory that he'd learned of magical cores. The room was bare and dusty, as if it hadn't been used in centuries. Dusty clothes and large neckkerchiefs were strewn about the room, the cupboard not even used. Harry had always felt the room wasn't complete; there were things missing that Harry just couldn't put his finger on.

Harry stood still in shock at the doorway, however. Ever since he'd first made his mind castle the room had been dusty and dirty, with the pulsing light of the magical core being soft and rather dull. Now, the dust was gone, the dirt as well; the cupboard finally used—to a certain extent, at least. The starkest change, however, came from his magical core's light. It was bright, not unbearably so, and clean. As if something had tuned it like a violin. He'd visited the room only just before the fight at the ministry, so he couldn't understand what accounted for the change.

_Perhaps something in the library will help, _Harry thought.

Sherlock looked up from the scroll he was just about to read. Harry passed by in his peripheral and was heading towards the aisle on magic theory. Sherlock was just starting on second year content when he'd heard Harry climbing the stairs. Harry returned moments later with tomes that were filled with fifth year content. Harry was mumbling to himself, but Sherlock couldn't make him out.

"what are you researching on magic theory?" Sherlock asked.

"My magic core has changed, and I need to know why. What year are you on? Second? Oh, well, a magic core is something all beings that can wield magic have. You've read on squibs already, yeah? Squibs have them too, but theirs' are so small, and blunt so they can't channel any magic. Cores rarely change, so it's a big deal when they do. Mine's done so with no reason, so I need to find out why… I may have to look into the history of magic texts. Even at fifth year, magic cores are considered pretty advanced, so they aren't covered extensively," Harry rambled in explanation. Sherlock put his scroll down.

"Yet history of magic might?" he quipped. Harry gave him an exasperated look.

"Yeah. I told you, Sherlock, a magic core changing is really rare. Magical affiliation isn't really, because magic itself is neutral, you should be getting to that soon in the texts from second year. When a core _changes_ it means that magic output, size, the _entire _structure of the core has changed, and _that_ is rare. Rare enough for such instances to be recorded in history… If I'm lucky and memory serves me right," Harry said.

'Might I help?" Sherlock offered. If this core changed, it may hold a key to his and Harry's mind connection. Harry looked grateful but shook his head.

"You're on _second year, _Sherlock. You don't know nearly enough, besides, you still wouldn't know what to look for if you did know enough to help. Magic cores are so difficult and egmatic because they're personal. To the best of everyone's knowledge, magic _itself_ creates each magic core. Only the mage themselves can fully understand their own. You just keep building your knowledge base. Once you're done with the core magic theory, start on the core classes; Transfiguration, charms, defence and potions. They each have specific theory that goes with them; not to mention you'll find them pretty interesting. If I need any help with the history texts I'll let you know," Harry said. Sherlock nodded, angry that he had to admit ignorance to something as important as this.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Harry asked. Sherlock looked up into the face of a very solemn young wizard.

"Don't go near the forbidden section again without my permission. You wouldn't want to get stuck there on your own," he said and then went back to reading.

_How the hell had he known? _Sherlock asked himself in shock.


	6. Chapter 5: More powerful than any man

**More Powerful Than Any Man**

**Holmes Mansion**

When Mycroft entered the foyer of the Holmes mansion, he took in the smell of old wood, dust, and bad memories. Phillip the butler stood by the entrance, took his coat and umbrella, and placed them in the coat cupboard. Mycroft then began to make his way up the stairs to his office. With each step he took, he felt the weight of his stress settle and shift on his shoulders. He had not been sleeping easy; what with things going on in various Middle Eastern countries, and in America, the usual dealings with various Ambassadors, not to mention the problems with MI-6… and, now, Sherlock. He'd spent the last twelve or so hours with him so that John could sleep. He didn't care what the man said; he was far too devoted to Sherlock to only be a friend.

He arrived in his office, and immediately poured a generous helping of single-malt scotch before he sat in his chair. He stared at the bare walls that had seen so many generations of Holmes men as they sat, contemplated, and fixed the world's problems.

_If these walls could talk, I wonder if they'd be willing to help me with my own, _He mused as he sipped his drink. Then again, Holmes' rarely need consultation for any issue.

_Possible trauma of the brain, several contusions, broken limbs and ribs, punctured lung…_ The list of his baby brother's torture, unfortunately, went on and on. Hands clasped as if in prayer and placed against his lips in contemplation, the eldest Holmes contemplated his younger brother's situation.

_He may not wake up, comatose patients rarely do. If that is the case…_Mycroft took a deep, shuttering breath as his emotions bubbled to the surface for the umpteenth time since his brother's abduction. All the sorrow, disappointment, and helplessness that had been bundled together and thrust deep into his being were forcing their way up. He sucked in another shuddering breath. Breathing seemed to have become difficult.

_I'm more powerful than any man in muggle Britain, so why is it that I couldn't find my brother sooner? Why is it that all I can do is sit and wait? I don't know whether this is worse than the incident with father or not, _He closed his eyes and tried to breathe steady as his fear, anger and grief flooded through him, but he did not cry. He refused to cry. Never again.

A knock on the door woke him from his reverie and he locked his emotions away in a small drawer of his mind office before responding.

"Yes, what is it?" Mycroft said as Phillip opened the door but did not enter.

"So sorry to bother you, Master Holmes. The Mistress would like to have tea with you, if you are available."

"Yes. Yes, of course, Phillip. Please inform her that I shall be there momentarily." Mycroft said and Phillip bowed before leaving; closing the door behind him in silence. Taking in a deep breath as he stood, Mycroft smoothed out his suit and placed his empty tumbler on the mantle behind his desk before leaving the room. He let out a small sight before inhaling. Having tea or dining with his mother always required a lot of strength from him and, frankly, Mycroft didn't have much left to spare Mummy. It was at these times he wondered what it would be like if he were able to tell Mummy the news about Sherlock; he wondered if sharing the pain and anxiety with family was easier than shouldering it all on one's own. He sighed again before shutting the door to his office.

He walked down the hall and entered a grand bedroom with a large window overlooking the rain-soaked garden. A woman in a wheelchair sat staring out of the window while Phillip poured the tea. She was a beautiful woman, in a plain sort of way. Her dark curls were pulled back but left down and her pale skin was clean and blemish free. Her dark eyes, however, were dull and held little life in them anymore. Mycroft slowly made his way towards the chair opposite the woman and sat. He waited. After a while, the woman turned her head towards Mycroft and smiled. Her dark eyes sparkled for just a moment.

"Elwyn. You're back from your trip early. I'm afraid Mycroft and Sherlock have not returned from boarding school yet. But they should be arriving in a few weeks, if you are still home," She said and reached for her tea.

Mycroft gave his mother a weak smile. "Yes. I'm sure I shall be here when they arrive."

**Harry's Mind Castle: The Library**

"…And magic found in magical creatures such as elves extends from a more natural form of magic that is different from witches or wizards, whose magic comes from their core. Although, it should be noted that through practising of the Old Religion a witch or wizard might strengthen their core through binding it to the naturally occurring magic by way of rituals, " Sherlock dictated to the magical quill. He grabbed the finished scroll and placed it among the others before sending them off to his mind palace with a wave of his hand as if it were nothing. They would arrive in his library and remain on a desk until he put them away in their appropriate section… Which meant he'd have to build a new section of his library to house data on magic.

Harry watched over the top of his "History of the Discovery of Magical Cores" by Bartemius Brecht. It was awe inspiring to Harry how relaxed Sherlock was whilst learning about _real _magic. Even the more accepting muggles would be tense or upset over all the rules, theories and restrictions that came with practicing magic. They all believed the fairy-tales but potions, charms and magic in general would never work that way, and that reality made most of them mad.

"It's sorta surprising that you've had no encounter with magic before. You seem to act like it's natural… Most muggles don't, that's all I'm saying. It's nice," Harry rambled when Sherlock gave him a penetrating stare. It rather reminded him of the stares he gave.

"After eliminating the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Magic, whilst improbable, is apparently truth. Since it seems relevant to the current situation, and in solving interesting, albeit unusual cases, I've decided to learn all pertinent data on the subject. It would be idiocy for me to believe _fairy-tales _when it comes to the rules, laws and restrictions of magic," Sherlock said as he replaced the magical theory books and returned with first and second year potions. Harry gave a wry smile.

"Like I said, it's nice… Fairies are vicious little twats, by the way," Harry commented as Sherlock cracked open the books. The thin man looked up and returned the smile with a smirk.

"I still don't quite comprehend why you wish me to learn the core subjects before helping you, Harry. I've caught up with your knowledge of magic theory, I think I shall be of _some _use."

"As I told you before, Sherlock, magic theory is complicated and vast. You've caught up with my knowledge on _general _magic theory, each core subject—and a couple of specialized branches—each are a specific branch of magic theory… Think of it like science, yeah? In primary, we all learn the general knowledge of science, what it is, what we can study and do with it. As we get older science becomes different studies; chemistry, physics, biology and so on. Each of those subjects are science, but they've specific rules and theory that make them unique. That's what magic theory is like as well… You just have to read through second year for half of them; transfiguration you should read through fourth year, and potions through third year."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod and became engrossed with the books. Harry smirked and returned to his own.

_ In 1448, Gerald Groth of Gasmuth theorized that magic in wizards came primarily, not from their surroundings, but from within. He proved this by placing himself in a magic proofed room, which was made from muggle-made materials and included a distinct lack of nature or any magical properties. As he was still able to cast spells that he usually did his theory was accepted. _

_Groth concluded that magic is present within a witch or wizard. He theorised that this magic was a core of some sort, most likely in the shape of a sphere, and was unique to each individual. He also theorised that this core may have inherited traits from the mage's parents; allowing for witches and wizards who are more suited to one type of magic over others. _

_Gerald Groth held a theory called Split Magical Core Theory. This theory was partly based upon evidence that magic was more prevalent in earlier times; which allowed for unusually powerful mages such as Merlin to exist. Another part of this theory was based on the concepts of reincarnation and that cores are a part of the soul, hence are reincarnated with the witch or wizard. The theory states that in a rare occurrence of an abnormally powerful witch or wizard, in a magically depleted area or in an environment with low magical presence, the being's core is divided into two beings. The being is spilt in half entirely; with one half having the magic and the other not. The halves would most likely also be split in personality, gaining only half of the traits they would have._

_There have been no findings such a core since this time, although certain events have lent credence to the theory and therefore theorists have not disregarded it… _

Harry placed the book on the table and stood with a stretch. _This _was why he didn't enjoy studying for long periods of time. He got cramps and stiff muscles. He eyes Sherlock as he walked over to his restricted section. Placing his hand on the gate he focused on sending his magic through the lock. A gold swirl left his fingertips and the gate unlocked.

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as Harry closed the gates behind him and disappeared into the section. _Of course! The gate unlocks to his magical signature, it's like a fingerprint for a magic core, oh that is quite brilliant since no one has ever been able to copy one exactly, _Sherlock thought. Harry returned from the mysterious depths carrying a book. He locked the gate behind him.

As he walked back to his seat, he flipped through the book thinking that it might have the answer as to why Sherlock was connected to his Mind Castle. He also stopped by the magical theory section and picked up a book on the Mind Arts. When he reached his seat, he found Sherlock looking at the open book he had left on Gerald Groth.

"A split soul. You believe it may something to do with why we are connected."

"It's possible. It may explain several things about us as well, but it's a rather vague subject. It could also be something to do with the mind arts, which I'm going to look through first."

"Mind arts… As in construction of mental facilities or buildings?"

"Yeah, as well as a few other aspects like mental blocks, occlumency, and storage of information."

"It would be interesting to see how similar it is to—what do you call us, muggles—how muggles use mental construction."

"Well, how do muggles use it?" Harry asked and folded his book closed to give Sherlock his full attention.

Sherlock began to explain: "The majority of muggles are semi-intelligent, so very few actually use the idea of compartmentalizing. Essentially, the objective is to use a place from childhood or where they feel safe to represent their mind. One creates rooms to represent memories, people or data. So long as one remembers where the room is, every detail is accurately stored. Not many "professionals" have solid proof as to how this is possible, since the area where memories are stored in the brain is undiscovered."

Harry leaned back in his chair. None of that information was new to him; he'd learned most of it in his first few lessons with professor Snape.

"Wizards consider mental construction to be a magical art that's difficult to master since there's so many internal factors. The goal is pretty much identical to the muggle one, but it's not the only goal. For instance, sometimes the place is merely a safe haven, sometimes you want to hide information, or—in the cases of seers—you want to organise huge amounts of information properly. Mindscapes, the place you construct, can even be made simply to help the body run more efficiently, the first ones to build them were mages who wanted to improve their ability to cast spells, or apparate—essentially teleporting—and it sort of grew from there.

"Mindscapes take huge amounts of energy and power to build, maintain and protect. Mine encompasses everything in my brain. Not just memory but everything from sensory intake to digestion. Most only make a single room or space, and then use what's called occlumency to protect it from intruders."

"Intruders? People can invade minds?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. It's called Legilimency. Some legimens are subtle and crafty, sneaking in and not setting of alarms or traps that occlumens can build as defences. Some, as you can see from the state of my castle, aren't subtle at all… Although that son of a gnome was destroying everything on purpose."

"You were attacked? By whom? What for?"

"Long story short, about fifty years ago a very powerful bugger named Lord Voldemort started trying to conquer the wizarding world and enslave muggles. Fourteen years ago my parents were fighting against him and he came to our house one night, he murdered them in front of me before trying to finish the whole deed by ending me too. I was, what, one? Anyway, no one had _ever _survived when he decided to get his hands dirty, but I did. Hence, I'm rather infamous all over the world. I somehow destroyed his body. He's been trying to make a come back for the last four years and last year he managed it… He recently possessed me and then proceeded to wreak as much havoc in my head as he could. I kicked him out but, maybe I should've just let him finish his work; there really isn't much more he needed to do."

"I see… That is the short version, I suppose, since I'm now left with several questions," Sherlock said. _That explains the trauma, _Sherlock thought. Harry snorted in amusement.

"That barely covered the bare bones of the matter. Everything related to the snake-faced sod is in my personal memories; you can look into it later, once we've figured out our mysterious connection to each other."

"Speaking of which, do you think a split soul is plausible as a theory?"

"…It could be. It could also explain why my core has changed… I don't know, I need to do more research; with what little information I've got at our disposal that is," Harry sighed in annoyance. Sherlock knew that sigh of frustration, he did it inwardly enough when _he _needed more data but couldn't get his hands on any. He clapped Harry's shoulder in comfort before returning to his materials on potions.


End file.
